


take the job (it has benefits)

by Corpium



Series: Stiles the Consulting Supernaturalist [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Mostly Canon, Attorney!Peter, BAMF Stiles, Bartender!Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpium/pseuds/Corpium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can't believe she bit the top of your ear. How tawdry," Peter says to himself. "The lobe would have been much more tasteful."</p><p>Stiles squints at him. "Keep your mouth off my earlobes."</p><p>"Oh, so now you're conscious," Peter sighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take the job (it has benefits)

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't add/rate this on goodreads or copy/duplicate this outside of personal use. If you'd like to know why I don't want it on goodreads, see my post [here](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/post/114890656994/i-have-a-request-regarding-my-fanfiction-and-ill).

Stiles is in L.A. when it happens. He's bartending to help pay off his college debt as he works his way through grad school when Peter Hale, of all people, shows up at his bar.

                              

Stiles is used to the pack stopping by to see him. He and Boyd went to USC on scholarships while Allison and Erica went to UCLA (the school rivalry between them all was epic beyond proportion), and Lydia's still out doing some crazy obscure, nation-building research at Stanford, which apparently pays her so well that she can take a plane out to L.A. whenever she wants. Scott and Derek are back in Beacon Hills, but Stiles still keeps in touch. If anything, the distance only solidifies his and Scott's friendship even further. When Stiles goes back, it's like nothing's changed. As for Peter, Stiles _thought_ he was still off doing his minor attorney thing in Beacon County, but, well-

 

"I'll take a beer," Peter says, and Stiles whips around from where he's watching the television out of pure boredom.

 

He eyes Peter. Last time they saw each other, they were on well-enough terms. Peter had disappeared after the pack took down the Darach and returned a year later with some sort of renewed law degree. When Stiles half-jokingly asked if he was still planning to ruin Derek's life, the guy just smiled wryly and said, "I changed my mind." And that was that. Supernatural beings invariably invaded the town; Stiles, Lydia, and Peter planned their demise; and then the pack took them out. Rinse and repeat.

 

Occasionally Peter would creep on Stiles in Lydia's presence, and Stiles would sit back and watch as Lydia broke his fingers and sprayed him with special wolfsbane mace.

 

_Good times._

 

"Which one?" Stiles asks.

 

Peter sits down on one of the bar stools and rests his head on his hand. "Just a Heineken."

 

Stiles raises his eyebrows and grabs a glass. As he fills it up from the tap, he looks over at Peter. The guy looks a little out of place in Stiles's less than mediocre bar, but he wears the look well, and his age hardly shows. Stiles almost rolls his eyes. _Goddamn Hales._ "Why aren't you back in Beacon Hills?"

 

Peter shrugs. "I got a job offer from one of my old friends at her law firm. I figured it was time for a change."

 

"Huh," Stiles says. Sometimes he forgets that Peter actually has a life. "So why are you _here_?" Stiles walks over, hands him his beer, and leans on the counter across from him. "This place seems a little below your standards."

 

Peter leers at Stiles, looking him up and down. "Maybe I just came here to see you."

 

Stiles huffs. "Careful, Peter. Get too creepy and Lydia might drop from the sky and shatter your kneecaps."

 

Peter frowns, tilting his head slightly. "I thought Lydia was in Palo Alto," he says warily.

 

Smiles grins. "Yeah, but this is Lydia we're talking about. She's everywhere, whether you realize it or not. She's basically omniscient."

 

Peter snorts. "Well, Lydia or no Lydia, I'm not here to creep on you, Stiles." He tilts his head and adds in a low voice, "Regrettably enough." He smirks and his voice returns to normal. "I'm here to hire you. My firm takes on a lot of supernatural cases, and we're looking for a new consultant."

 

Stiles looks down at the bar, brow furrowed. He looks back up and meets Peter's blue eyes. _When did he get that close?_ "Shouldn't you be able to handle that by yourself? After all, you're…" Stiles gestures vaguely, waving his hands as if to encompass Peter's whole body. "… _you_. You've even got your own bestiary."

 

Peter nods in acknowledgement. "True. However, you've had access to that _and_ Gerard Argent's; your researching skills are world-renowned, and let's not forget to mention the many clients you've already worked with."

 

"I wouldn't call them 'clients'," Stiles says. Over the last five or so years, he's somehow gotten himself suckered into helping various people and supernatural beings with their problems. It's life-threatening, but it's fun, and Stiles can't deny the rush he gets every time he solves a case.

 

"It pays well, too," Peter says enticingly. He looks around the sparsely populated bar. "Certainly better than this place."

 

Stiles jabs his index finger at him. "Hey, I happen to like this place." That's not actually true. His boss is a grouch, and the clientele can be pretty sketchy sometimes. Still, he's worked here for a year now. He feels obligated to defend it.

 

Peter grabs his wrist. "It's not nice to point," he warns playfully. Stiles can feel his pulse pick up beneath Peter's warm, slightly too tight grip.

 

Stiles pulls his hand away slowly and lays it back down on the bar, watching Peter closely. "And there's the Peter we all know and love," he murmurs. "I was wondering when you were going to drop the nice-guy act."

 

Peter crosses his arms. "Please, Stiles, it's not like I'm going to attack you or anything. I think we're past that by now."

 

Stiles huffs out a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. "Fine, fine, let's get back on track, okay?" He leans back on the bar again. "You said you're looking for a 'new' consultant. What happened to the last one?"

 

Peter examines his fingernails. "He mysteriously disappeared after selling out a client." He shrugs a little and looks up at Stiles, eyes focused intently. "That's why we want you, specifically. Loyalty is practically you're calling card."

 

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "Tch. Calling card? I think that's pushing it a little, don't you think?"

 

"You shouldn't underestimate yourself, Stiles." Peter's looking at him like he's something fascinating, exotic, and it makes Stiles start to pull back, intending to stand up and find some glasses to clean or something. Stiles has always hated that look, like Peter can see right through him. It makes something in his belly clench; it's unsettling.

 

Peter's hand on his wrist stops him from pulling away. "Presumptuous much?" Stiles spits out harshly, not knowing whether he's talking about the hand on his wrist or Peter's question.

 

Peter leans in, unfazed. "The things you've done," he says almost reverently. "Those things don't go unnoticed. You've made a name for yourself, Stiles."

 

"I…" Stiles manages to say, but Peter's thumb is rubbing circles against his pulse point, gentle and soft, and it's just so _damn distracting_. Stiles finds his eyes locked with Peter's. He swallows.

 

Peter's lips quirk up into a slight smile. "Try one case with us," he says, and then he's pulling away and resting his head on his hand again. "A trial run, we'll call it."

 

Stiles blinks and inhales deeply, trying to clear his head. _Goddamnit, Peter_. People are supposed to be wrinkled and frail when they're older, not whatever the fuck Peter is _. Fucking Hale genes._ After a moment, Stiles sighs and asks, "What's the case?"

 

"A serial-killing spirit. It possessed my client, killed her boss and son, then moved on to someone else."

 

Stiles winces and makes a face. "Oh, damn."

 

Peter nods. "Yeah. So what we need you to do is help us capture the spirit, and then we'll carry the case on from there."

 

"Do you know why it murdered them?"

 

"It has a type. Caucasian, pale, lithe, brunettes. Kinda like you, actually." Peter says wryly. He smirks. "You could play bait, if you want."

 

Stiles groans. "Man, I think I had enough of that back in Beacon Hills."

 

Peter's phone rings, one of the stock jingles the phone probably came with. "I have to take this," he says apologetically. "I'll be outside."

 

"My shift ends in a couple minutes," Stiles offers. "I'll just meet you out there."

 

Peter nods. "Fantastic, you can just let me know what you need, and-"

 

"I didn't say yes," Stiles says quickly.

 

Peter smiles as he stands up, teeth flashing. "But you didn't say no, either." He stalks away and brings the phone up to his ear before Stiles can respond.

 

Stiles pouts. "That's rapist logic," he grumbles.

 

Peter turns around just before he reaches the door and gives Stiles a shrug and a quick quirk of an eyebrow. Stiles shakes his head at him, and Peter walks out the door, bumping shoulders with a petite little blond teenage girl.

 

Stiles groans. His least favorite customer.

 

She sashays up to the counter. "Stiles," she purrs.

 

"Look," Stiles starts before she can say anything else. "You're underage, Kara. I can't serve you. You know this."

 

"But we're all alone now. No one will know," she whines, and Stiles scans the room. They are, indeed, alone.

 

 _I want to shoot myself in the face._ Stiles sighs and checks his phone. It's midnight on a weekday, and Stiles is done for the day. He walks around the counter over to Kara. "Look, kid, I've gotta close up. Go get a milkshake with your friends or something." He grabs her elbow to pull her away, and next thing he knows, his face is being slammed against the countertop. "What the hell-"

 

"Shut up," Kara hisses. "I'm not getting a fucking milkshake." She leans over him and whispers in his ear, "I've got something much better in mind."

 

Stiles groans and tries to push himself up only to be shoved back down against the counter. She smells like mold. "You're fucking kidding me. You're possessed, aren't you?" Because this is Stiles's life, of course she is.

 

"As a matter of a fact, I am," she says, sounding pleased. "You're such a smart little cookie. Although I guess I should've expected that, what with your werewolf friend and all."

 

"Did you seriously just call me 'cookie'?" Stiles says, letting himself go limp. He catalogues everything in the room. He's wedged in between two bar stools, and he's not in a position to reach anything behind the counter. She's plastered against his back, holding his wrists together between their bodies.

 

She brings one hand away and strokes his hair. "What, you don't like the nickname?"

 

That's when Stiles moves. He gets his foot around her ankle and kicks it forward, knocking her off balance, while simultaneously knocking his head back to headbutt her in the face. He pushes off the counter and bolts away, running for the back door. Something tugs on the back of his shirt, so he grabs a barstool and swings it back behind him blindly. It collides with something, and he hears Kara shout.

 

He makes it to the back door and dashes through the backroom. _Vervaine vervaine vervaine_ , he chants in his mind, _What the hell do I have that uses vervaine?_ He makes it outside and slams the door shut, pressing his back up against it and digging his feet into the ground. Something slams up against the door from the other side as Stiles digs through his pockets for his keys. Another slam that makes the whole door shudder, and he's fumbling with them to find the right one. Another slam, and Stiles gets the key in the hole and locks the door.

He runs into the parking lot, yanking out his car key. _Fuck fuck fuck_. He gets to the trunk of his car and sticks the key into the lock. He hears a loud, cracking *bang* and glances up. Kara's just broken down the door. _Fuck._ He opens the trunk, pulls out the secret compartment (because he's so badass/weird he has one of those nowadays) and spots a bow and quiver. He yanks an arrow out of the quiver just as Kara tackles him to the ground and _fucking bites his ear!_

"Oh, my god!" he yelps and tries to push her off, but to no avail.

 

So he stabs her with the arrow. Just beneath her collarbone on the right side.

 

Buried inside her, the arrow gleams a sickly green. She looks down at it in shock, then opens her mouth in a silent scream before collapsing on top of Stiles.

 

Stiles shoves her limp body off him and lets his head drop to the ground, panting.

 

He tenses when he hears footsteps running towards him, but then he hears Peter say, "Stiles," and lets himself relax again. Peter kneels down beside him, taking in the scene.

 

"Showing up a little late, don't you think?" Stiles asks as he tries to sit up. The world spins around him, and he chokes down the urge to throw up.

 

Peter grins ruefully. "She knocked me out with a sedative." His eyes narrow in on Stiles's neck, and he leans in close, his breath hot on Stiles's collarbone. Then he pulls away, his nostrils still flaring.  "Apparently she did the same to you, too."

 

"Wha-" Stiles tries to say, but his tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth. His arms tremble, and suddenly Peter's hands are on him, easing him back down to the ground.

 

His vision starts to gray, and he hears Kara groan beside him. "Vervaine. In arrow," he manages to say, and then everything sort of fades away.

 

It's not that he's unconscious, it's just that he doesn't really know what's going on. Everything's gray, and Peter's voice is warm and soothing in the background. There are hands lifting him up, moving him around, and then he's lounging back on leather, a car engine purring beneath him. There are more voices and phones ringing, and then the engine's purring picks up, and he's moving.

 

At some point he falls asleep, and he wakes up to find himself on his own couch, still woozy but a little more coherent. Peter's in front of him, holding a glass of something to his lips. "Drink," says Peter. Stiles presses his lips tightly together, making Peter shake his head in chagrin. "It's just water," he assures, and Stiles believes him.

 

The water is cool and soothing as it goes down his throat, and he closes his eyes.

 

When he opens them next, Peter's beside him once more and there's a stinging pressure on his ear. "I can't believe she bit the top of your ear. How tawdry," Peter says to himself. "The lobe would have been much more tasteful."

 

Stiles squints at him. "Keep your mouth off my earlobes."

 

Peter quirks an eyebrow at him. "Oh, so now you pay attention. If you only knew what else I've been saying."

 

"Creep," Stiles mumbles, and he's out again.

 

Stiles drifts in and out of a warm haze, and then arms are sliding under his shoulders and the back of his knees, and Stiles is being lifted up. He blinks his eyes open and sees Peter's face swimming above him. He clears his throat and croaks, "M'not helpless."

 

One side of Peter's lips twitches as he looks down at Stiles. "For a long time I thought you were…," he notes.

 

"Cuz I'm not a werewolf?" Stiles's curiosity makes him perk up.

 

The corners of Peter's eyes crinkle. "Sometimes I forget how perceptive you can be." His nostrils flare, and he opens the door to Stiles's bedroom.

 

Next thing he knows, Stiles is being tucked into bed. Somehow his shoes and socks disappeared, but he doesn't remember when that happened.

 

Peter pulls his wallet out from his pocket and takes a card out. "I'm leaving my card here in case you have trouble remembering things in the morning. Otherwise, I'll call you tomorrow to see what your decision is." He sets the card down and starts to move away.

 

Stiles grabs for him and misses, his aim off, but Peter stops anyway, looking at him apprehensively, like he's a loose canon that could go off any moment. "Stay," Stiles says, and he doesn't want to think about why he says it.

 

Peter cocks his head to the side. "Stiles. You've been drugged," he says flatly.

 

"I know," Stiles says quietly. He looks away. "It's just –last time…. Last time this-"

 

Last time Stiles was drugged, he tried to stay awake for a whole month after, and every time his body forced him to sleep, he woke up in a cold sweat minutes later, choking on silent screams.

 

His pulse stays steady, but he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his head. The room feels like it's closing in on him, and his breath starts to shorten. He forces himself to roll onto his side, facing away from Peter. "Never mind," he says, and he starts to count to ten in his head.

 

He hears Peter sigh, and then there's a flick of a switch and the room goes dark. Cloth rustles, and then the bed shifts beside him. Stiles blinks. "Didn't mean in my bed," he grumbles.

 

A shoulder brushes against his spine. "I'm not sleeping on your _floor_ , Stiles."

 

"Chair," Stiles yawns, his eyes shutting of their own accord. His body is warm and torpid, and he can feel himself sinking into the sheets.

 

"Even when you're tranquilized, you still keep talking," Peter says fondly. He turns, his body pressing up against Stiles's, firm and hot against his back. He slings an arm over Stiles's stomach, and Stiles mumbles something unintelligible in protest.

 

"Shush," Peter says.

 

"Yer just tryin' t'get in my pants," Stiles mutters.

 

Peter's short laugh tickles the back of his neck. "Trust me, by the time I try to get in your pants, you'll be begging for it."

 

"Wh-" Stiles starts to shift.

 

Peter sighs, his arm tightening around the other man's waist. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

 

And Stiles does.

 

(-_-zzz)

 

Stiles wakes up to a hand tracing circles into the small of his back and with his face buried in Peter's throat. He'd be achingly turned on if his ear didn't feel like it was on fire and his neck didn't feel like it had been stabbed. The pain makes Stiles groan. He scrunches his eyes together. "Fuck, I need some morphine."

 

Peter's hand stops moving on his back, and Stiles represses a whine. Then the pain starts to fade away, leaving his skin blissfully cool, and Stiles is leaning into Peter. "Oh, thank God," he moans, his lips brushing against the hollow of Peter's collarbone.

 

Peter's hand resumes tracing circles, and Stiles's dick starts to take notice. Thankfully for Stiles, Peter's already a hard line nudging against the inside of his thighs. Stiles mouths at Peter's collarbone, tasting him, and he starts to move his hips, slow and languid. "You know," he breathes out. "This isn't how my usual one-night stand goes."

 

Peter's body goes scarily still, and Stiles has a brief moment to wonder what it was he said when there's a rush of movement, and suddenly he's lying on his back with Peter hovering over him. Peter grinds down into him, his hands dragging down Stiles's torso. Breathless, Stiles wonders when they both lost their shirts, but then he forgets the thought as Peter ducks down to suck a bruise onto Stiles's neck, his lips wet and demanding. When he's satisfied, he pulls back and stares down at Stiles. "Not a one-night stand," he says matter-of-factly, and then his lips attack Stiles's mouth.

 

Peter sweeps his tongue over Stiles's lower lip, and Stiles parts his lips obligingly, letting Peter's tongue rove around his mouth. His fingers dig into Peter's back, urging him closer, and his hips buck up. The pressure builds and he surges forward, taking over the kiss. One of Peter's hands tugs at his hair, while the other trails down Stiles's stomach, brushing over the edge of his boxers.

 

Stiles pulls away from the kiss, breathing hard, flicking his eyes down to where Peter's hand rests on his stomach. He grinds up and grabs Peter's ass, urging him down.

 

Peter smirks down at him, pupils blown, body unmoving.

 

"Come on," Stiles snarls.

 

Peter's smirk broadens. He leans down and puts his mouth right up to Stiles's good ear. "Take the job," he whispers, breath ghosting over Stiles's skin.

 

Stiles growls and shoves his hands in his pants, only for Peter to grab him by the wrists with one hand and tug them over his head.

 

Stiles's head drops back. "Peter," he whines. "Really?"

 

Peter's tongue flicks Stiles's earlobe, and his thumb starts tracing circles over Stiles's pulse point. _Fuck_ , he's already finding all Stiles's kinks. "Just tell me you'll take the job." He slowly grinds down, the friction so tantalizing that Stiles feels like he's going to explode.

 

Stiles pants, his hips bucking up again, but Peter just continues at that achingly slow pace. "Yes, God, yes, just hurry up, _please_." The words spill from Stiles's lips, and he honestly couldn't care less because _God, fuck, more._

Peter's smirk turns into a smile, and the rest is history.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're bored and would like to read 3,400 words of Peter Hale character analysis, I've posted [some](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/post/56520230222/what-the-hale-is-going-on-in-peters-head-an) over on [tumblr](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/post/56506696487/what-peter-said-implied-and-wanted-visionary-an).
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my muse and make me feel loved.
> 
> (Love me.)
> 
> (Love me now.)


End file.
